


Snow

by miraworos



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos
Summary: Crowley gets a present for his angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 51
Collections: Mira's Good Omens Christmas Fic





	Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Companion fic to Mistletoe (Day 1 of 31 Days of Ineffables)

It was snowing in the desert. And not just any desert. If there were ever going to be a sign from on high that it was time for Crowley to go home, snow in Sin City would be it.

“You sure about this, Crowley?” Michael asked.

“I’m never sure about anything,” Crowley answered. “That’s what makes it fun.”

Michael shrugged and handed Crowley the book. The book wasn’t really the point, though. The book was just the wrapping.

“I’ll never understand the pair of you,” she said, snowflakes falling all around her and yet not a one of them daring to land on her person.

“Again, that’s what makes it fun.”

She heaved a sigh of long-suffering and snapped her fingers. A white feather quill and a heavy parchment appeared in her hands. She handed these to Crowley as well, causing him to juggle the book, the quill, and the parchment, in order to sign his name.

“Could have just used my finger, you know.”

“Demon fire isn’t legally binding on a Heavenly contract,” she said.

Crowley gave her his best shit-eating grin. “I know. Just testing you.”

Michael rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Too late,” he said.

Glaring at him, Michael snapped her fingers again, and she, the quill, and the parchment disappeared.

Crowley took a deep breath, face tilted to the sky, as tiny pinpricks of the purest substance on earth stung his skin like angel kisses. Not that he’d ever been kissed by an angel. Or not yet, anyway. He rather hoped his Christmas present to Aziraphale might rectify that.

The book itself wasn’t much to look at. Even the snow swirling around it in ribbons did little to spruce its image. Leather cover, thick and floppy, with gilt edges like a Bible. Maybe it even was a Bible, come to that. Crowley had no idea and didn’t much care.

Just the same, he miracled red wrapping paper and ribbon around the thing and tucked it into his coat to protect it from the wet. Wouldn’t do much good as a present if it got terribly water-damaged. And Crowley had a thing about presents. If he was going to do them, he was going to do them right.

Which is why he’d spent the better part of autumn looking for the thing. Not that he’d told Aziraphale where he was going or why. He hadn’t wanted to get the angel’s hopes up. But he’d got it now. And it was snowing in the desert. And finally, finally, it was time to go home. Home to an old bookshop and even older friend.

But when he arrived at the bookshop, there was no angel in residence. The building was locked (hardly unusual), the lights were all off (slightly less than usual), and the angel’s smell was entirely missing (not in the least usual, unless he was out and about with Crowley).

Crowley was flummoxed. How was he to find the angel now? It’s not as if he could just ring him up on his mobile, as the angel didn’t have one. He didn’t believe in them, so they never worked for him. Just turned into lifeless bricks as soon as they touched his palm.

Crowley supposed it was his own fault. He had bid the angel farewell without any indication of when he’d be back. He could hardly expect Aziraphale to sit around waiting for him for months and go nowhere. And yet he had. He had expected that, it turned out. How pedestrian.

At least he’d brought the snow with him. It had been a clear night when he popped into it, but now flakes had begun to fall. Different snow, but just as pure. Where the desert snow had been points of dancing fire, this snow was soft and thick and slow, like a blanket. _Home_.

He needed to find Aziraphale.

And, in a Hallmark miracle, a propitious text appeared on his mobile.

_Get your ass here now, demon. You’re disappointing him._

He grinned as he tapped back, _It’s about time you all actually missed me_. Then he popped out of SoHo and into Tadfield, just outside a small cottage with a horseshoe over the door.

Without knocking he walked in, shaking the snow off his jacket as he moved through the crowd. It was only a minute, though, before he spotted his goal. Beige coat, pocket watch, tartan tie, angelic face. He hadn’t realized the true extent of his longing until he saw that face looking back at him.

Something of that longing must have registered with Aziraphale, because the angel drifted toward him as if pulled by a thread.

“Crowley,” he said. “You’re—you came back.”

“Of course, I did, angel,” Crowley answered, his heart all over his face. “I wouldn’t miss Christmas.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, his eyes shining in the candlelight. 

“Had a devil of a time finding you, though.” Crowley’s throat felt tight, like too many words were trying to get out all at once. “If it weren’t for Anathema’s text message, I would never have known where you were.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale said again, an iceberg of meaning under the surface.

“I have a present for you.”

Crowley offered Aziraphale the wrapped book, and Aziraphale took it, a play of emotions crossing his face too rapidly for Crowley to follow.

“Oh.”

And it struck Crowley again, the irony. For all that Aziraphale had said Crowley went too fast, it was actually Crowley who had difficulty keeping up. Crowley who had to pivot, to adapt, to adjust at the barest hint, the slightest expression. Aziraphale led and Crowley followed. Their dance had always been thus. But after Armageddon, everything had changed. Aziraphale was free. And so was Crowley. And Crowley was going to take full advantage of that.

Then sparks drifted down like fireflies from above.

Crowley and his angel looked up to see a sprig of mistletoe above their heads, which Crowley very much doubted had been there a moment ago.

“Humans,” he said, snorting softly.

“Witches, more like,” said Aziraphale, with a bitchy look aimed at Anathema. The same Anathema, bless her, who then made a shooing motion that could only be interpreted as _kiss him, you fool_.

And wonders never ceasing, the angel actually obeyed her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw the exact moment Aziraphale made up his mind to do it, and damned be all existence if anyone thought he was going to let that kiss land on his cheek. So he turned his head just enough to get full lip-on-lip contact. And it. Was. Glorious. Well, it was really just a peck. But the resulting look of panic on his angel’s face was pretty much worth the price of admission.

Aziraphale squeaked as he drew away, and that little sound was the proverbial straw that broke Crowley’s internal restraint. He hauled Aziraphale back in for a full-on conflagration of a kiss that lit every one of his own nerves on fire. Had they been out in the snow at that moment, Crowley was sure it would have evaporated into bone-dry desert instantaneously.

Crowley vaguely noted some sort of clapping going on in the background, but he couldn’t be arsed to care.

“That’s how it’s done, angel,” he said, as breathless as Aziraphale was boneless. “Care to try again?”

“Er, uh, sure,” Aziraphale spluttered adorably. “Maybe, yeah. I could possibly. Is it hot in here?”

Crowley chuckled. “A little. Maybe we should go back to the bookshop?”

Somebody else made some talking sounds at them, and Anathema rustled forward with a heaping plate for Aziraphale.

Then Crowley, being not the most patient of immortal entities and having had to wait six thousand years besides, dragged his angel, Aziraphale, guardian of a demon’s heart, by his wrist out into the falling snow.


End file.
